"In France," Marcel said with wintry dignity, "accidents occur in the bedroom, not the kitchen."

This medal (the National Book Award) together with my American Express card, will identify me worldwide ... except at Bloomingdale's.

I tried to resist his overtures, but he plied me with symphonies, quartets, chamber music, and cantatas.

Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin - it's the triumphant twang of a bedspring.

I don't know where we're going or how we'll get there, but when we get there we'll be there - and that's something, even if it's nothing.

A farm is an irregular patch of nettles bounded by short-term notes, containing a fool and his wife who didn't know enough to stay in the city.

To err is human, to forgive supine.